The Fear Of Dying Alone
by Poisonous Picasso
Summary: MxN The innocent always die first. ONESHOT


It's awkward.

It's really awkward to have to walk by the person you love every single day and act like you hate them more than anything in the entire fucking world. Because of reputation, because of the beating you know you'll receive, and of course, the fact that your feelings would by all means _not _be reciprocated.

It's also awkward to always have to be partnered with him. It's weird to have to sit by him everyday, listening to his cold, controlled voice, his warm, slightly raspy breaths. To have to smell the cool spearmint and wintry day on his skin, the skin that looks like it was personally kissed by Jack Frost.

He's beautiful.

He knows it, too. Compared to him, my beauty falls to mere average. He's not only beautiful, but completely, utterly, steal-your-breath-and-kill-you-dead gorgeous. In some ways, it's not fair.

He attracts attention. And it angers me. Sure, I attract attention, too. But I'm more badass, "Back off or I'll kill you, bitch," gorgeous. He's virginally beautiful, when he walks down the street, a sweet, cool, innocence penetrates you, sometimes bringing tears to the edges of your eyes.

Because you know he's going to die.

You know he'll be the first one targeted, maybe the first to fall. He's the weakest, the quietest, the smartest. And you also know he's an easy target, so easy, and firmly planted in the hearts of everyone around him.

Joining the mafia was a horrible, no good, very bad idea. I really shouldn't have done it, and I regret it every single day. But especially now, as I'm crouched outside his bedroom window, listening to quiet voices murmur instructions and goodnights to one another, waiting for the room to fall silent.

When it does, I peek in. Finding him immediately, a white, almost glowing figure surrounded by the surreal edges of nighttime. He's watching the snow, fascination apparent in his stance. I gulp back tears, open the window a tiny bit and wriggle in.

I creep up behind him, silently. He's humming a familiar tune, the song we always sang in Whammy's. The song that holds so many dear, sweet memories. My heart pounds as I stand to my full height, snatching an arm out to cover his eyes, the other holding my favorite pocket knife to his throat.

"Mello," his voice his smug, high-pitched and tainted with fear. "Don't be so surprised. I'd recognize your scent anywhere."

Right then, I almost do it. I almost plunge the knife into his pale, smooth neck. But then, I feel it, he's trembling. He's afraid. The smug voice is just a façade. A foolish, easily breakable façade.

"Near," my voice fills with malice as I hiss out the single syllable. I really hate that it has to end like this. Both of us, as usual, pretending. We've never been able to be true to one another, to ourselves.

"I'm not afraid of you," he whispers. His voice trembling as he stumbles over the declaration. I know better, I can taste it, the fear. He can't see me, therefore, he can't judge my movements, he doesn't know what I'm going to do next. I swallow another batch of tears. This is usually the most amusing part of the kill, tasting their fear, feeling the final moments of their life slip away in pure agony.

"Tell me one of your darkest secrets," I whisper. "You're going to die anyway. It won't hurt," I have to know something about him. Just one thing, one thing that I can hang onto. Maybe something dirty, something scary, a fear. Why he hated me.

"I've been in love with you for as long as I can remember."

The knife clatters to the floor. I almost release him, allowing him to see me. But I can't, I can't move at all. I can barely breath. My heart seems to have contracted, squeezing me, my air, my emotions. Everything out of my body.

"Wh-why?" I manage to whisper. I feel him shrug, his shoulder blades rolling up and down my torso.

"Because, you're beautiful, everything about you intrigues me, pulls me toward you. You're familiar, warm, and suffocating. I've never wanted anything more in my life."

I keep my hand over his eyes, tipping his head back, and touching my lips to his. He reacts immediately, touching my neck with his cool fingers, running his hand across the contours of my face. I feel myself break out in gooseflesh.

And then, I do it.

I dig the knife into his chest, he lets out a barely-audible gasp of pain. I uncover his eyes, they meet mine as he crumples to the floor, and then, I start to walk away.

Trembling hands grasp my pant leg, a weak grasp that feels so strong, pound right through me and snatching my heart. I turn, looking down at him.

"Stay," He gasps. "My greatest fear is dying alone."

I take a shuddering breath. Crouch down to the floor, pulling the smaller boy into my lap, his small, twitching, shaking form curling against me.

"Talk to me, or something," he whispers. His eyelids are twitching, the blood loss and pain is pulling him under.

Quietly, I begin to hum the same tune I heard him humming upon entrance, rocking back and forth as if holding a small child, no longer fighting the tears that rolled down my scarred and ugly face. His chest is rising and falling in an uneven pattern, pain evident in every rasping breath he takes.

Suddenly, it stops. He stops twitching, breathing, whining. It's eerily silent. His hand-I can almost feel it shaking if I close my eyes-is still clinging to mine. I continue to rock him, occasionally kiss him gently. I keep humming.

Finally, I force my shaking body to stand, command my arms to let go of his heavy, swinging body. He crumples to the floor, in a pool of his own blood.

No, that's not right, again, I pick him up, tucking him into bed, curling him on his side as if he's a sleeping child. Then, I close his eyes, tie his jaw shut. Kiss the side of his forehead, and leave.

**A/N Sorry I haven't been posting! School is devouring me. I apologize profusely. -goes all Ritzu- PLEASE FORGIVE ME! P.S I'm also sorry this was so rushed x.x**


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